


Space for Two

by stardust_made



Series: The Jealousy Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:11:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Five times John was jealous and one time he did something about it." John and Sherlock pay an early morning visit to Lestrade. John observes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Space for Two

  
One thing John really liked about Detective Inspector Lestrade was how natural his reactions to Sherlock were, and yet how permissive. Like everyone else he stared at Sherlock when he was firing out deductions but unlike everyone else Lestrade took Sherlock's words in. Annoyed, he twitched or sometimes he just sighed when Sherlock threw sarcastic remarks at another police officer but he didn’t send Sherlock away—nor did he ever throw back abuse at him, in any form. He frowned when Sherlock imperiously interrupted him in front of his team but he let him speak nonetheless. In short, when it came to Sherlock, Lestrade managed to be both your average adult and your precious, rare individual.

Case in point: Six o’clock in the morning on Saturday, Sherlock and John were at Lestrade’s front door. Lestrade was looking at them, sleepy and so _human_. He was scratching his stubble, rubbing his right eye, blinking rapidly, but he was not screaming murder at them about his weekend being ruined. In fact, he had just invited them in.

Once inside Sherlock outlined his issue with vigour far surpassing the needs of the hour and Lestrade just listened, stirring his coffee. John’s heart warmed further when he had a chance to take him in properly—it wasn’t like John had much to do while Sherlock was swirling around dramatically, talking at breakneck speed. So John observed their host and found that Lestrade was wearing a pair of reassuringly generic, light grey bottoms and a white t-shirt, as well as warm-looking socks. The final touch to the whole aura of a normal bloke was added by Lestrade's fleshier belly. John could just hug him.

God, John hadn’t slept for sixty hours.

The madman to whom he owed that accomplishment had just finished his plea. Although, seeing that the words “please”, “help”, “appreciate” or any other representatives of the vocabulary, associated with a plea, were absent from Sherlock’s speech, Lestrade would have been forgiven if he did send Sherlock away. Naturally, no such thing happened.

“You’re absolutely sure that if you find the owner of that motorbike, he’ll take us to the gang?” Lestrade asked, hand already tucking out his t-shirt. It was a perfunctory question—all three people in the room already knew Sherlock had gotten what he wanted. Sherlock’s short “Yes.” was more of a sign of gratitude than a real answer.

Lestrade nodded.

“Give me five minutes.”

While they were waiting John chose to flop down on the sofa and was pleased to feel himself sink in. Sherlock, of course, remained standing, although not still. He fidgeted around, made steps in different directions—John would never know where Sherlock got all that energy from; he was certainly burning a lot of it by simply _thinking_ the way he did. John felt giddy from just looking at him so he started examining his surroundings instead.

He’d been here once before, a couple of months ago, when he and Lestrade had gone out for a drink. Typically for a man who didn’t allow himself excess often, Lestrade had had one too many, and John didn’t have the heart to put him in a cab and send him home. (He still didn’t quite trust cabbies to leave a drunken man alone with them.) The car had waited for John to take him back to Baker Street so John had dropped Lestrade on the sofa, thrown a blanket over him, and hurried out.

Now he took the room in, albeit furtively. It always felt insensitive to look at people’s personal space, especially those you didn’t often see socially. John found himself surprised. Oh, there were the obligatory dirty plate and half-empty cup of tea left on the coffee table, indicating a late-night snack. And an open jar of mustard on the bar plot. This was a bachelor’s home, no doubt. But for one thing, there was the fact of the mere existence of a bar plot. Then there was the space itself. The house was old and the layout had obviously been changed—eighty years ago no one made open plan kitchen and dining/sitting room area. Lestrade had had the entire bottom floor of the house redone as much as the building allowed it, and John appreciated how big and spacious the place looked.

The other thing were the details. John was familiar with Lestrade’s fashion style so he wasn’t shocked to see utilitarian furniture in the same neutral, dark colours. But there was the pair of quite sophisticated iron candlesticks. And the really nice curtains. John had expected blinds, not curtains, and certainly not such gorgeous ones! John rarely paid attention to this sort of thing but here he couldn’t help but admire the rich, dark green colour. There were even very subtle matt silver patterns on the textile. He proceeded to notice not one, not two, but three houseplants that appeared very well looked after. Thick rugs on the floor, too, as well as a couple of lamps that had a definite plush feel about them. The place was just—John’s lips stretched, amused. It was the kind of place he thought Mycroft would put together, not Lestrade.

John’s musings were interrupted by Lestrade showing at the door and beckoning: “Let’s go to the garage.”

John had heard it mentioned that Lestrade had a motorbike but had never quite managed to picture the serious, tenacious inspector riding one. A motorbike, especially the one that John’s mind supplied as a fantasy, was the symbol of something wild, something daring. Something dangerous. Lestrade wasn’t any of these things, not the way John had perceived him at the many crime scenes, during the many interviews. He was always behaving so moderately. Lestrade wasn’t too diligent, and neither was he too careless. Not too quiet, not too noisy. John knew, deep down, that any official police representative—anyone at all, really—who saw beyond Sherlock’s…unique character and into Sherlock’s potential had to have more to him than what met the eye. Lestrade was one of the very few people who were consistent in Sherlock’s life, had been for years. There was quite an individual hiding behind that moderate façade, John was sure. But his imagination still hadn’t succeeded in producing a plausible image of a leather clad Lestrade, roaring on his monster of a shiny motorbike.

Turned out, it would have been the wrong image anyway. Just like the owner, the bike wasn’t striking. It was neither too shiny, nor too shabby. Not too big, not too small. It was a solid, good motorbike. Lestrade’s gear wasn't quite worthy of the cover of “Bikes Monthly”—nothing flashy, no leather pants or silver studs. He wore old, well-fitting jeans; a black leather jacket which softly enveloped him, leaving no doubt that it had done so for many years; and a pair of worn bikers’ boots. His hair was glistening—he must have run his wet hands through it, spiking it a bit inadvertently—

And suddenly the silver strands looked really cool. The hair wasn’t the only thing, either. The stubble, the attire, the bike, something about Lestrade’s attitude—it all mixed together and gave him in an air of easy attractiveness. All the more pronounced now as his wide grin flashed at Sherlock. The two had exchanged a few lines but John hadn’t quite caught what had been said. Lestrade’s broad grin was a bit like his bike: something that existed on theory but was rarely witnessed. And, just like his bike, once materialized, the smile fitted its owner like a glove. John experienced a peculiar prickling at the back of his skull, and felt oddly grateful that Lestrade didn’t go about throwing his grin at people, at the two of them, at Sherlock…

John’s eyes leapt to Sherlock to find him rocking impatiently on his heels, waiting for Lestrade to get ready. Sherlock had taken off his coat and John blinked, annoyed with himself for being so dazed by the lack of sleep that he’d missed when Sherlock must have changed earlier. He was now wearing a pair of dark jeans, a very dark purple shirt, and a midnight blue jacket, but one with a very casual cut. He’d kept his scarf on, and God helped John, but Sherlock looked cool, too. John could just picture him at the back of Lestrade’s bike, arms wrapped around the warm body in the warm leather, curls waving, baring Sherlock’s mercurial face.

John swallowed and averted his gaze; his eyes met Lestrade’s big, dark eyes for a brief, intense moment, before John hurriedly turned his head away. He literally didn’t know where to look. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to go home, alone, and sleep for three days. He wanted to burrow himself in his duvet, put his head under the pillow and _sleep_ , and let Lestrade and Sherlock fly together to that bikers’ gathering, with Sherlock’s front pressed to Lestrade’s back, the two locked into a perfect composition by their cool hair and their cool jeans. The two sides of the same coin. Tails, the man who was comfortable in his own skin, and heads, the man whose own skin hardly ever mattered to him.

John realized Sherlock had spoken to him. He shook his head questioningly in a silent request for Sherlock to repeat.

“I said you can go, John.”

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, his expression more childish than irate. “John only insisted on coming because he was worried that if you said no, I’d go and buy a bike, and pretend I was a biker myself.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. “Well,” he dragged, “apart from thinking that I could possibly say no to you, or stop you, for that matter, he had a point.”

“Oh, side with him, go on.” Sherlock waved one hand theatrically then stared at Lestrade, cross. “Can we go now?”

“Helmet.”

Sherlock took the helmet that was handed to him and put it on, while Lestrade pushed the motorbike out on the street. The first rays of sunlight were like smudged coral lines on the distant horizon and the air was tinted with a soft pink hue. The morning was chilly and very fresh. John watched Lestrade’s thighs secure around the bike, then Sherlock's slimmer ones mirror Lestrade’s as he sat behind him. “Ready?” came Lestrade’s muffled voice. “Yes,” was Sherlock’s equally muffled reply.

“Bye, John.” Lestrade lifted a gloved hand. John couldn’t see his eyes; he’d already closed his helmet.

“Bye,” John called. Sherlock turned his head to John and John was startled to meet his bright eyes. There was just something about pink—it always brought out the blue of one’s eyes; John remembered Harry’s when she was a little girl.

“Go home,” Sherlock told John. “I’ll text you—“

“You call me when—“

“No, you’ll be sleeping. Put your phone on vibrate; it’ll only buzz once when I text, so it won’t startle you.”

John didn’t know what to say so he just nodded. Sherlock put his visor down and turned forward, gripping Lestrade’s waist firmly. “Let’s go,” he said.

They disappeared down the road with a suitable roar. John was left standing outside Lestrade’s house, wondering not where they were going but exactly how far back they went.

**Author's Note:**

> Original entry at my Livejournal [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/34593.html).


End file.
